After the Fall
by CajunSunrise
Summary: One month after Sherlock's death, John is a mess- nearly suicidal. What will happen when Sherlock reveals to John that he is indeed alive?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: The stories of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the brilliance of its modernization into the television series "Sherlock" was an idea co-created by Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat, both of whom I adore and admire. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are played by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, whose (hopefully accurate) representations I try to embody in this story. Sadly, I own none of the material, and this story is made solely for my own pleasure- and because I'm so anxious to watch Series 3 that I could not wait for the release of the actual episodes, and thus I had to make up a story instead.

Enjoy. :)

* * *

John Watson of 221B Baker Street is having a terrible day. The clinic is chaotic beyond belief, full of children crying, people coughing and flu and fluids everywhere. The plan is to finish work by five and take Madison, his most recent girlfriend, out for dinner. However, he ends up collapsing from fatigue on his sofa for three hours instead. This is hardly the first time John has forsaken punctuality, and so when John finally arrives at her flat, Madison opens the door, shoves a box of his personal effects at him, and then slams the door in his face. No words are spoken- none are needed. In the cab home, John texts an apology to his newest ex-girlfriend, but she hasn't replied.

The day's events are occupying John's mind, and the guilt he feels for this behaviour towards Madison, both today and other days, is weighing down his eyes so all he can look at is the box in his hands and the ground beneath his feet. As he reaches the flat, John manages to disentangle his keys from his wallet and loose change and opens the door to 221B Baker Street, where he promptly drops his box on the floor and falls down next to it, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes in exhaustion, frustration, and resignation.

Really, what is worth living for anymore? It is only one month since Sherlock Holmes' death, and already John Watson is losing the will to exist.

After a quarter of an hour of sitting in the dark at the bottom of the stairwell, John harnesses the energy to stand, dragging his possessions into his arms as he straightens. Slowly, he climbs the stairs, aware of every creak the hardwood makes as it protests supporting the sudden weight of John and his box. Even the stairs dislike him.

Oddly, there is a light on at the top of the stairs, and the door left slightly ajar. John does not recall leaving either the door open or the light on, but takes no precautions upon entering his flat. If someone wishes to kill him, they can feel at ease to do so.

The television is also on, turned to BBC News. At first, John is just concerned by the strangeness that the telly is switched _on_, but that concern is quickly replaced by no small amount of relief as he reads the headline at the bottom of the screen. _Sherlock Holmes Not Guilty._

_"The police revealed today that they have delved into the past of James Moriarty, recently deceased criminal mastermind. Records indicate that Moriarty had created a false identity as an actor in order to sabotage consulting detective Sherlock Holmes' credibility, also recently deceased. The investigation into Moriarty's criminal activities is ongoing..."_

Without realizing it, John has approached the television, box still in his arms. There, on the screen, is that infamous photograph of Sherlock with his upturned collar and his deerstalker hat. The lighting in the photo does not do his friend's eyes justice. It the photo, Sherlock's eyes come off as an opaque gray. The photo captures none of his friend's naturally observant expression, which is enhanced by the clarity of his blue-green eyes.

John sits on the sofa, possessions still in hand, and watches the broadcast, feeling less relieved and more angry as it continues. He listens to the BBC proclaim Sherlock as hero of London, a soldier against the forces of evil. Police officers from Lestrade's division are interviewed, praising Sherlock's intelligence and bravery, mourning over how hastily they believed Moriarty's damning lies.

John feels a distinct urge to kick the television.

A month ago, and for several weeks after, Sherlock had been the butt of every bit of black humour in the country. He had died a disgrace. His funeral was attended by only four people. And now Sherlock is a martyr, and the people shout their love and adoration for him.

Too late.

John places his box on the sofa beside him and looks around for the remote. Only then does he notice the ghost sitting at the desk in the corner of the living room, the lamp shining on papers which long fingers are leafing through with interest.

John manages a garbled yell and drops the remote. The ghost's head turns from its work towards John, with eyes John knows so well glimmering in the dim light.

"Sherlock," John whispers, almost a question.

The hands delicately place the paper on the desk while that straight nose, those cupid's bow lips and sharp cheek bones, that strong forehead and weak jawline give John their full attention.

"Hello, John."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter and a special thanks to those who reviewed it! I'm looking for a beta or two, so if that's something you're interested in, let me know.

* * *

John stares.

What else is there to do when one sees a ghost?

Finally, after a few moments of shocked silence, Sherlock rises and flicks on the light switch, illuminating the living room with the overhead lamp. John tries to gather the strands of his thoughts, but he is so completely unravelled by this apparition, which moves into the kitchen and goes about making tea.

The BBC News is now showing footage of Sherlock's deadly fall off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Cell phone footage, taken by a callous passerby.

"Are you real?" John finally asks, still dumbfounded. "You're not a ghost?"

"I never thought you were the superstitious type, John," Sherlock's baritone rings from the kitchen. He returns to the living room with two mugs of tea and passes on to John, who automatically reaches for the warm drink. Then, Sherlock places a hand on John's shoulder and squeezes- tightly. The sensation is intentionally painful, and in that moment John knows that Sherlock is no ghost. Relief floods through John's body- he is lucky he is already sitting, as he is certain his legs would have given way.

"I- I saw you die," John stumbles over his words as a flurry of sentences try to push their way to the tip of John's tongue.

"Correction: you saw me fall," Sherlock replies, withdrawing his hand and moving to sit on the opposite side of the sofa, John's box dividing the sofa into territories. Sherlocks leans over and picks up the remote that John has dropped earlier, using it to flick through channels on the telly.

"N-No. I saw you _die_. I saw the ambulance take you away after you _made_ me w-watch you fall and I saw you on the pavement, bleeding out...I was there at the hospital when they pronounced you dead!" The words shake their way out of John's mouth.

"Yes, Molly Hooper told me you were there for the whole ordeal," Sherlock comments vaguely. He is facing the television, giving John a good look at his profile, which is noticeably thinner than usual. In the light, John can see the still-angry scar that is healing just over Sherlock's left temple. Blue-green eyes flicker back and forth between John and the telly. Sherlock is clearly waiting for John to solve the puzzle now that he has given John a clue.

John's brain is not fit for Sherlock's games at present. He's still stuck on the fact that Sherlock is alive. And is sitting in the Baker Street flat. Drinking tea. "Molly...did Molly...?"

Sherlock allows John no more time to piece the puzzle together, instead completing the story of his false demise himself. "She administered a dose of tetradotoxin, effectively putting me into a deep coma and stopping my heart for long enough that the doctors pronounced me dead. She then wheeled me down to the morgue and out the emergency exit, and then transported me to a different hospital, under an alias, where I spent the next three weeks recovering- Why can't everyone see that this show's host has never worked a day in his life in construction? His uncalloused hands are a dead giveaway!"

John's thoughts are beginning unstick from the impossibility of the entire situation. "Does anyone else know you're alive?"

"I expect Mycroft does, knowing how fond he is of keeping an annoyingly close eye on my acquaintances." Sherlock sounds so at ease mentioning Mycroft, as if he has forgotten that Mycroft was the man who supplied Moriarty with all the details of Sherlock's past, giving the criminal mastermind the perfect ammunition to stage Sherlock's fall.

John is now studying Sherlock's body for signs of injury. Of course, the consulting detective is wearing his customary suit, so visible signs are out of the question. The doctor observes Sherlock's hand, trying to detect any tremors. There are none.

It takes effort for John to recall Sherlock's last words and peice together a logical follow-up question, "Has he tried to contact you?"

"No doubt he is fully aware that trying to contact me would jeopardize the safety of myself and -" Sherlock stops himself, watching the television show far too closely.

"-And? And what, Sherlock?" John probes.

Sherlock quickly turns his head towards John, saying, "And the safety of my friends." John feels as though he's in the middle of a sparring match, though he is unsure of whether Sherlock is trying to parry or land a blow. Then, Sherlock snaps his head back towards the television. Parrying, John decides. Retreating into that distant, well-guarded palace of his mind.

John just acknowledges all of this with a small, surprised "oh."

A few minutes pass, allowing John to wade out of shock's murky waters and reach the shores of thoughts that have been occupying his mind for the past month. He remembers that Sherlock's faked death has triggered his PTSD symptoms, and he has seen flashbacks of the war while he was working at the clinic, on dates with Madison, while he was asleep. He has realized that he has no idea what to do without the adventurous life of investigating crime. Consequently, John has more than once entertained the notion of sticking a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger because he couldn't figure out how to cope without either Afghanistan or Sherlock.

"Is there any reason you didn't even try to let me know, give me a hint -_anything_- that were were alive?" Anger born of frustration begins to bubble in John's chest.

"Moriarty's hounds were still out there," is Sherlock's short reply. It is probably the closest Sherlock will ever come to saying, _I didn't want you to get hurt_.

John doesn't care- he is still pissed off.

All of the grief he felt for Sherlock's passing, weeks of hoping and praying that somehow he wouldn't be dead, all the rage he felt at the news and the police and the people for gobbling down Moriarty's version of Sherlock and still demanding more dirt on the once beloved detective. And then their fickleness as they claimed him as their martyr. All that _emotion_ that Sherlock thought was so _debilitating_ and _inferior_ is culminating in the space behind John's eyes, making his brain tingle until he is nearly blinded by all of that _feeling_.

"And you didn't think I'd be able to handle myself against one assassin?" John asks incredulously. "What do you take me for? I've been to Afghanistan, Sherlock. For god's sake, I've been _shot_ before."

"Yes, and at that point in time you were part of a division of military men who were all amply armed and protected," Sherlock replies, his eyes making mental notes as they flick over John's distressed face.

"It doesn't matter!" John yells. "I would have risked that danger just to know you were alive, and to _help_ you. God, I'm a doctor after all!"

"I already had several doctors checking in on me several times a day," Sherlock counters John again, matching John blow for blow. Then, Sherlock strikes first. "Can't you just be happy that I'm not dead?"

"No, Sherlock, I can't. I grieved at your loss, I lost my girlfriend _again_, because I've been such a mess over your death. Just today, as I came upstairs and saw the door open, I hoped that-" John breaks off, unwilling to get melodramatic in front of Sherlock, who is certain to misunderstand the source of John's suicidal thoughts.

"You can't just decide to die, and expect the world not to notice your absence," John amends.

"Dear God," Sherlock groans, rolling his eyes up to the heavens. "I appreciate your sentiment, John, but please try to be reasonable."

"Yeah, well, forgive me for not being a fucking robot," John lashes out before storming upstairs to his bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Thanks again to everyone who is reading this story- I do hope you like it! Any feedback you feel like giving me is most appreciated. :)

The information on rifles contained in this chapter was taken from Wikipedia's page on sniper rifles.

* * *

John has not spoken to Sherlock in three days. Too angry at Sherlock and too ashamed of his own outburst, John takes to slipping into the kitchen for breakfast on his way out to work. He does not eat dinner at home anymore, finding the hustle and bustle of the cafes more comforting than Sherlock's violin and the bubbling and hissing of his expansive chemistry set.

Even Sherlock notices John's absence, and stops soliloquizing to him after the second day.

The third morning is an awkward morning for John as it is his day off from the clinic and he has nowhere to escape to. He sneaks past the living room and skulks into the kitchen for some tea and toast. He puts on the kettle, and opens the refrigerator to get some jam.

John is pleasantly surprised to discover that the fridge is fully stocked with milk, eggs, juice, fruits and vegetables, and even some bacon and chicken. The deduction is not difficult; Sherlock has gone grocery shopping.

Sherlock never goes grocery shopping.

John quickly surveys the flat, alarmed. If Sherlock is so bored as to shop for groceries...

Yet Sherlock is in the living room, sitting on the armchair in front of the telly, which is turned to some educational documentary about how sniper rifles are made. He is examining hand-written notes in the sunlight. Nothing alarming. Nothing even out of the usual.

John frowns, though he says nothing. Instead, he pulls the eggs and bacon out of the fridge and proceeds to make a hearty breakfast. He makes two portions, just in case Sherlock is hungry.

Sherlock stays in the living room while John eats his meal on a small square of the kitchen table that is not covered in Sherlock's chemicals, glassware or books. It has only been three days since Sherlock's return, and already the kitchen has been restored to its customary state of organized chaos.

Once John finishes his meal, he amasses the dirty dishes littered around the kitchen and the living room - the first breach of enemy territory- and washes them all at the sink.

While John is wrist-deep in soapy water, cleaning a particularly stubborn pan, Sherlock invades the kitchen, takes a dish towel, and begins to wipe the dishes dry. Another novelty.

"_In military and law enforcement terminology, a sniper rifle is a precision-rifle used to ensure more accurate placement of bullets at longer ranges than other small arms. A typical sniper rifle is built for optimal levels of accuracy, fitted with a telescopic sight and chambered for a military centerfire cartridge_," the television warbles. It is the only other sound in 221B Baker Street aside from the clink of dishware.

Refusing to look at Sherlock's face, John looks only looking at Sherlock's long hands and sharp wrist bones to pass him the clean dishes dripping of water. Sherlock makes no attempt at conversation.

John frowns. Even the way Sherlock handles dishes is theatrical. The way he flicks the dishes over in his hands, dextrously drying every nook and cranny.

Once they are finished their combined task, John drains the sink and mutters a "thank you", which is barely audible over the gurgle of water. Eyes concentrating on the kitchen floor, John tries to ignore the prickling feeling on the back of his neck that tells him Sherlock is watching him. John flees the kitchen before Sherlock can get a word in edgewise, and hides upstairs in his room.

"_The telescopic sights used on sniper rifles differ from other optical sights in that they offer much greater magnification (more than 4 times and up to 40 times), and have a much larger objective lens (40 to 50 millimeters in diameter) for a brighter image._"

Sitting on the edge of his bed, John picks up the novel he is reading and reaches for his usual mug of tea, and realizes it's not there. He boiled the water for his tea, but never made it.

Sighing, John heads backs downstairs. Sherlock has returned to his armchair, legs folded to his chest like a child. A plate of bacon, eggs and toast rests precariously on Sherlock's bent knees, held in place with a hand while the other hand absently shovels food into his mouth. He hardly seems to notice what he is eating, as he is paying too much attention to the documentary.

John cracks his first genuine smile in three days. It's not a full smile, it's not full forgiveness, but it's a beginning.

John crosses the living room again, feeling less like an intruder this time, and heads to the kitchen to prepare his tea. Task complete, he returns to the living room, gingerly stepping in front of Sherlock in a beeline to the other armchair. Once John sits down, the two flatmates settle back into their seats and their friendship, and watch the documentary.


	4. Chapter 4, Part 1

**Author's Note: **Thanks again to all my readers, reviewers, followers, and people who have added this story to their favourites!

The main story arc is going to get underway quite soon- I split up this chapter into two parts, because I felt it was getting a little lengthy. Part two should be up within the next two days or so!

* * *

The thunderous blast of a bomb splits the silence of the encampment and snaps John upright in his bunk, a fearful shout ripping from his throat. Gathering his wits, he tries to gauge the bomb's damage by the power of the sound. How much carnage, how many broken bodies? John measures a bomb's severity in ripped flesh and fractured bones, in pints of blood and milligrams of morphine, in casualties and fatalities.

Hazy from sleep yet blood pumping from danger, John tries to understand his darkened surroundings, which are nothing like the mesh and canvas simplicity of his tent in Afghanistan. As he crawls into consciousness, John realizes that he is in his bedroom at 221B Baker street, that is is nighttime- the night after Sherlock bought groceries and John made them both breakfast, and that it is raining heavily outside his window.

A burst of lightning momentarily blinds John. It is immediately followed by a roar of thunder.

The bomb was only a nightmare, incorporated into his dreams by the deafening thunderclap.

This recognition does not stop John's left shoulder from throbbing with memories of the war, nor does it stop his body from shivering in cold sweat.

John concentrates on his breathing for a moment, trying to recall his cognitive therapy sessions that he has been skipping though he knows he should attend them. He cannot remember the tips and tricks, only that his therapist keeps telling him that the only way to cure his PTSD is to keep going to therapy and talk about his nightmares and flashbacks. This only brings more anxiety and John begins to fidget, scratching his arms and tapping his feet while still sitting in bed.

Or he could keep hanging around Sherlock. Before Sherlock's death, the world's only consulting detective had erased John's PTSD symptoms entirely.

John wraps himself up in the throw blanket a the foot of his bed and wobbles downstairs, intent on making himself a cup of tea.

Upon John's arrival into the kitchen, Sherlock is sitting at the table peering intently into his microscope. He looks up as John rustles into the kitchen, his eyes sweeping over John for a moment before getting up to put the kettle on.

"Trouble sleeping?" Sherlock asks, his deep voice anchoring John into reality, rather than the vividness of his dreams.

"Yeah." John's voice is still scratchy from sleep. "Thunderstorm. What time is it?"

"Three forty-one in the morning," Sherlock leans against the stove, his baggy pyjamas draped across his lean limbs. Judging from Sherlock's lucidity, he is usually awake at this hour.

John, however, closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted. A blinding flash that reminds him too much of an exploding grenade streaks past his eyelids, and he snaps his eyes open. The flash is again soon accompanied by a rumble of thunder.

Sherlock is watching him closely, minutely squinting his eyes. He opens his mouth as though to say something, but subsequently closes his lips firmly.

"What?" John asks, somewhat irate.

"Nothing. Or, at least, I shouldn't say anything. One isn't supposed to pressure people with PTSD symptoms to talk about their experiences." Sherlock turns his back towards John as he removes the kettle from the burner, sprinkles tea leaves into the teapot and fills the pot with hot water. This gives John a chance to silently curse his friend's near-superhuman powers of deduction.

Sherlock turns back around and hands a teacup to John, returning to the seat in front of the microscope. John's hands peak out from underneath the blanket and bring the teacup to his lips, and as he sips he is impressed that Sherlock has remembered John likes his tea with milk and no sugar, though he is mystified by this continuation of domesticity. First groceries, now tea?

"They're just dreams. Flashes of the war," John mutters into his teacup. "They returned after you jumped off St. Bart's roof."

The silence may have been dramatic if Sherlock was not so focused on the slide set underneath the lens of the microscope.

"Do you think the dreams returned because I left or because you saw me die?" Sherlock's questioning is as direct and merciless as it is with everyone else. He rotates the microscope's objective lenses to increase the magnification of the slide.

"I don't know. Both, maybe," John replies, still standing in the doorway of the kitchen, staring down at the teacup cupped in his perfectly steady hands.

Sherlock finally looks up from the microscope and with his elbows on the table he steeples his hands underneath his chin, staring off into a world that John cannot see. After a moment, Sherlock speaks. "The bicycle that knocked you over as you were walking towards me after I fell- that was planned. That was Molly who nearly drove you over. It gave me a moment to rip open a package of blood to make my injuries look far worse than they actually were; I didn't actually hit my head that hard, for example."

"Right," John replies tersely.

"Just thought you should know. In case it helps," Sherlock looks at John briefly, and then stands up. Sherlock slips past John, heading down the hallway to his bedroom.

"Not watching documentaries about sniper rifles will probably help, too," John interjects.

"If you say so," Sherlock replies dismissively, his back already turned to John as steps into his bedroom. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John is not sure if Sherlock hears him- the bedroom door closes before John can utter a word.


	5. Chapter 4, Part 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks again to all my readers, reviewers, followers and favouriters! :D

I said I would have Ch. 4, Part Two out in about two days after Ch. 4, Part One was published, which definitely didn't happen. :s In my defense, a lot happens in Part Two. If there is one chapter I'd like to have reviewed, it is this one, since I found it rather tricky to write and I'd like to hear what you guys think. :)

* * *

The next week is rather odd for John Watson. Reporters and fans crowd Baker Street due to the news of Sherlock's innocence, clamouring with questions and we-love-you's and flashing their cameras in his face. John hates it. He wants to tell them all to sod off, but he knows doing so would invite the vindictiveness of the media, and they would dig likely into his past. The last thing he wants is to spur the newspapers to write a detailed account of his career in Afghanistan, or to find out about Harriet's drinking problems.

So, he pastes on a brave smile every time he ventures out of the flat, though he declines any interviews beyond one-second soundbites. However, he is not beyond breaking this near-silence to talk with some of Sherlock's rather attractive female fans, who are also lined up outside Baker Street. John even garners a few of their phone numbers.

Phone numbers are by far the least peculiar things fans give him. Outside of the Baker Street flat, people are lining up to regale John with sympathy cards and flowers. He foists these on Mrs. Hudson, who throws out the cards and puts the flowers in water and decorates her flat in bouquets. Mrs. Hudson of course knows that Sherlock is alive; John came home one evening to find Sherlock in the kitchen of 221A, humouring their landlady by listening to her chatter and allowing her to keep a firm yet brittle grip on Sherlock's hand, as if fearful he would vanish again.

In addition to these completely unnecessary gestures of sympathy, which he accepts through gritted teeth, John receives artwork from the fans, generally paintings or sketches which depict Sherlock and John as lovers. Sherlock collects them all in a dossier, apparently out of amusement rather than intellectual interest. Yet, even odder than these, John receives a life-sized, sculpted bust in perfect likeness of Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, you have to tell them you're not dead," John says, slamming the bust down on the living room coffee table, behind which Sherlock is sprawled out on the sofa, one arm and one leg hanging down, foot and hand grazing the hardwood floor. John has already finished his shift at the clinic and seen his therapist that day, and still Sherlock is wearing pyjamas and watching crap telly. Granted, judging by the clean dishes in the drying rack, it seems that Sherlock washed the dishes before lazily draping himself over the sofa. On the floor beside him is the day's newspaper, whose front page reads _Murder on Lovett Street_. Sherlock's index finger listlessly traces the words.

"This is getting ridiculous," John continues. "You've been back a week-"

"I agree," Sherlock replies, cutting John off. Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position on the sofa and hands John the newspaper. "Look. Another murder today, yet our friends at Scotland Yard still haven't given a press conference. If that's not ridiculous, I don't know what is."

"Another murder?" John frowns, trying to remember if he has heard anything in the news though honestly he has been a little busy this week and has not been keeping up with his current events.

"Yes." Sherlock replies, picking the bust off the coffee table to examine it. "Five victims over the past month have all been shot in their homes, in rooms with shattered windows. I remarked on the pattern two evenings ago- weren't you listening?"

"I was on a date two evenings ago, Sherlock," John sits down in one of the chairs in the living room, giving his feet a rest from carrying him around all day on the London tube, the clinic, and his therapist's office.

"Were you?" Sherlock pauses for a moment. "You've been on a lot of dates this week, haven't you?

"Well, lots of girls have been giving me their phone numbers this week," John replies, being purposely obtuse.

"Why? You look the same as you always do, clean shaven, short hair, lumpy sweater, military physique softened from months working at a clinic. Why are women particularly interested in you this week?" Sherlock, with the bust still in hand, walks towards the window and opens the curtain a hair's breadth, just enough to peer outside, and looks at the crowd on the street below.

"Don't you normally hate Scotland Yard's press conferences?" John tries to tempt Sherlock into a less intimate conversation.

"Yes, I normally do- they're usually so completely uninformative. It's the fans outside, isn't it?" Sherlock turns back towards John and smirks. "You've been getting phone numbers from my fans that are outside Baker Street."

Sherlock places his sculpture back and on the coffee table and pulls the empty chair in the living room closer to the slightly open curtain, and places John's box of things from Madison's place on top the chair.

John opens his mouth to deny the accusation, but defends Sherlock's attack at his ego instead. "Some of them are my fans too, you know. And a few of them are quite attractive-"

"- Attractive enough to sleep with, it would seem." Sherlock interrupts, placing the bust on top of the box, where it sits at almost the same height Sherlock's own head would sit on his shoulders if he were sitting down.

"Well at least it's better than getting off on all of those fan-made pictures that you've been collecting." John quips, shutting Sherlock into a surprised silence. After a moment, John feels guilty and apologizes by changing the subject. "Why would this press conference be any different?"

"I haven't been allowed at the crime scenes until after Anderson, O'Donovan and everyone else have ruined them, since I can't risk anyone seeing me lest the news spread that I'm alive," Sherlock complain, happy to change the vein of the conversation. "By that point, they've already taken all the interesting evidence back to the station, which I could break into with Mycroft's identification, although I don't want him tracing me any more than he already deems necessary."

"Is it so important that people don't know you're alive? For God's sake, isn't it driving you mad there is something so interesting- Why are you taking your shirt off?" John asks suddenly, slightly alarmed as Sherlock unbuttons his own pyjama shirt and drapes it on the box and bust, so the replica of Sherlock extends past the face and neck, appearing now to also have a torso. Really, it looks like Sherlock is staring down at his identical twin, who is sitting in a chair in front of the window. Sherlock stands in front of the chair, his naked skin stretched over bones and muscles, looking down at his handiwork for a moment before he nods.

"An experiment," Sherlock answers cryptically, wrapping his arms across his chest and hugging his ribs with his hands, clearly awkward with his bodily exposure. He looks towards John quickly, who is frowning in puzzlement. John performs pap tests and prostate exams almost daily at the clinic and is hardly uncomfortable with the human body, yet most bodies he sees are those of his patients. It is always different seeing a human body outside of the work setting, and he doesn't understand what Sherlock is doing, putting his shirt around the bust like that. Perhaps Sherlock has finally cracked, but more likely, there is a reason.

"Anyways, there's something I'm waiting for, before I reveal myself publicly." Sherlock replies, apparently unaware of his words' irony, considering his state of undress. He retires into his own bedroom and returns to the living room wearing another pyjama shirt, returning both Sherlock and John to their comfort zones.

"Well, I hope whatever you're waiting for bloody well hurries up. The flat is starting to smell with that skin you've pinned to the cupboards," John nods in the direction of the kitchen, eyeing a particularly ripe piece of flesh stuck to the cupboard with a brightly coloured pin.

"I need to measure the decay of fragmented flesh, or else I cannot accurately estimate the time of death of the victims," Sherlock rebuffs.

"Or you could go tell the Scotland Yard that you're alive, and they could tell you the time of death of the victims," John argues, still sitting in the armchair. "You've already let Molly in on it- why not a few more people?

"A police station is under much closer surveillance than a hospital morgue. It' s easy to keep in contact with Molly and her dead bodies without anyone noticing," Sherlock counters.

"So, you've been able to examine the five victims, then?" John ventures. Molly has clearly been staying in consistent contact with Sherlock for the past month, John notes.

"Certainly- as well as acquire the bits of flesh that are now tacked about the kitchen," Sherlock replies, only partly paying attention to the conversation, as most of his focus has returned to the crap telly.

"What have you found out about the victims?" John asks after a moment of silence, except for the rambling of a talk-show host.

"The cause of death is a bullet which leaves a splash pattern indicating that the gun was shot through this window, evidence which correlates with the shattered glass," Sherlock answers. "Molly has been kind enough to reveal that the bullets which killed our five victims were all 7.62 NATO ball cartridges, which is a military-issue cartridge for the L118A1 sniper rifle. Even without seeing the ballistics report, it's quite obvious that the murderer is a sniper, and that he likely is or once was recently a part of the British Army, since the L118A1 is an improved version of the L96A1, which are both sniper rifles issued by the British Army. Although, it is possible that Moriarty managed to smuggle a few military-issue sniper rifles out of the army and into the hands of one of his prodigiously gifted cronies who has no military experience, but that possibility seems unlikely."

"Moriarty? How is Moriarty involved in all of this? Don't tell me he somehow miraculously escaped death as well?" John's question drips sarcasm.

"While Moriarty's survival would be a happy thought, I'm afraid he is well and truly dead, John. Yet despite his death, James Moriarty is still central to these murders," Sherlock looks away from the telly and begins to wander aimlessly around the living room with his violin in hand, plucking odd melodies from the strings."All five victims worked at places associated with Moriarty's crimes, and were likely accomplices. The first victim was a security guard at the Tower of London, and was shot nearly a month ago. The second was a receptionist at Janus Rentals, and the third victim was the assistant to the Director of the Bank of England. The fourth was the warden at Pentonville Prison. The fifth was Kitty Riley, who you should remember for housing James Moriarty, alias Richard Brook, and also being the reporter who wrote that infamous-" Sherlock coughs- "article which debunked my fraudulent powers of deduction. She died in her flat on Lovett Street."

John whistles, "Well, that explains why this murder made the front page of the newspaper." Sherlock only nods, satisfying John's curiosity no further. So, John continues his barrage of questions, which Sherlock does not appear to mind.

"So, the sniper has killed five victims over the course of the month, but you have no idea who the sniper is?" John finds this rather surprising. Sherlock has the capacity to solve a thirty year-old murder in eight hours, yet here is an unsolved case that Sherlock has been chewing for one month.

"No idea, other than we've probably met him once before." As John's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, unsure if he is more surprised that Sherlock has no clues or that they have already met the sniper. Sherlock patiently explains his reasoning. "Remember when we first met Moriarty at the pool, we both had guns aimed at our heads. However, I have no idea how to _find_ this sniper, since I have no access to any of the evidence at Scotland Yard, and all my analysis of soils and vegetations from the victims' clothing has thus far proved an exercise in futility."

John is impressed with Sherlock's ability to remain so calm when this puzzle must be eating away at him. It seems that really, the only thing left to do is wait until Sherlock can contact Scotland Yard again. "So, what are you waiting for, before you go public?"

At that moment, the window- with its curtain open so slightly, behind which the imitation of Sherlock Holmes sits in the armchair- shatters. The forehead of the sculpted bust explodes sending sharp shards of clay all about the room. Something small and silver rockets past the real Sherlock's shoulder and jets onto the kitchen.

John reacts with the instincts of a soldier, as though he was back in Afghanistan where the sand was so fine that the disturbance of an explosive or a gunshot hitting the ground caused the sand to puff up in dust clouds around the soldiers, obscuring one's sense of reality for several minutes. The world of 221B Baker Street remains perfectly clear as John runs over to Sherlock and pushes against the detective's chest, the strength and speed of the action causing Sherlock to unbalance and fall spine-first onto the ground. John lands stomach-down beside the detective, one hand still flat against Sherlock's sternum, pressing Sherlock to the floor. John looks over and sees Sherlock's gaze falling slowly, drinking in information that has just manifested in the living room. Sherlock first looks up at the window, then at the sculpted bust which has been blown to bits, and then right at John who is breathing as though he has just run a marathon.

As Sherlock's eyes fall to John's face, his gaze is caught by John's. It is one of the rare moments where Sherlock really looks at John, studying his face not for clues as to where John has gone or who he has seen, but looking into John's eyes because Sherlock is scared and also because he wants to make sure the ex-soldier is not hurt. In this moment, Sherlock's God complex shatters and they are equals, not a brilliant detective and his loyal sidekick.

The moment passes when Sherlock rolls away from John and pushes himself off the ground.

Sherlock crawls along the floor until he reaches the windows, where he rips the curtains shut. Only when the flat is hidden from external eyes does Sherlock stand, wincing as he rubs his back. For the first time since the gunshot, John notices that people are screaming outside the flat and that police sirens can be heard in the distance.

"I believe that bullet was meant for me," Sherlock comments in a tone generally reserved for discussing unsavoury birthday presents.

"You were lucky, then, that some fan was nice enough to give me that sculpture," John follows Sherlock's lead and stands up, brushing himself off, much more composed than the man who only a week ago woke up at three forty- one in the morning from nightmares of the war .

"Indeed," Sherlock acknowledges. "Well, hopefully that was a sufficient explanation as to why I did not want to advertise my presence, John. Mrs. Hudson will be displeased- this is the second time in two months she will need to have that window replaced." Sherlock pauses for a moment and frowns. "I'd better call Mycroft."


End file.
